With pen in hand, Raphael set about capturing his overflowing passion on the immaculate paper. Each stroke was an ethereal caress on the skin of his beloved muse, each rhyme a sweet requiebro that evoked the honey of her lips.
The words flowed in rivers of black ink, rough melodies that narrated the pilgrimage of the morning dew. The love of the sea was her confidant, witness to the solitude that reigned in her bed, ardent longing for the embraces of her absent love.
On paper he imprinted the flames that consumed him from within during the sleepless and delirious nights. Poetry was his vehicle to express the sublime madness that kept him alive.
Each stanza was an agonising cry from his insatiable heart, each metaphor a kiss stolen from the emptiness that could no longer quench his thirst. For Rafael, writing had become a pressing need, a desperate offering at the feet of his idolised beloved.